Not So Selective
by Stories and Sails
Summary: "He had a strong ache in his chest, swelling his throat to a constant close, all due to the fact that things would not get better. Not when someone so dear and important in his life was gone, and certainly not when it was his fault." Jack is suffering from post-traumatic mutism, and struggles to live as he used to. [HiJack, Modern AU.]
1. An Early Morning

**Author's Note:** Hi there! This is my first story that I've ever posted here, so my apologies if there are any major mistakes. This is going to be a HiJack fic, as well as a Modern AU. A huge thank you to BBaM for helping me so much! And of course, I don't own either of these wonderful movies.

* * *

**Chapter One: An Early Morning**

* * *

Expression anxious, Jack glanced at his phone. It read seven a.m.

His eyes looked defeated.

The street lights outside were lit as the sun still hid, nearing ever slowly from the east. Illuminated underneath the lamp's circle of light, there were snowed over pathways and iced over curbs that held the promise of unsteady footing. Bare trees shivered alongside the street's edge as a northern wind passed through, bringing with it a flurry of white and a newfound chill in the air.

It was nearing the height of winter, Jack noted.

Inside of his adoptive father's old Honda, the heating had yet to catch up with the cold morning chill, and as he let out a breath Jack saw the air frost before his eyes. He smiled and felt a small surge of playfulness, but it was gone all too soon once his attention diverted elsewhere. On the driver's side of the car, Jack's adoptive father said a few choice words about the cold, and reached a hand away from the wheel to notch up the heat. North was a largely framed man with a white, neatly kept beard, both will and actions tough as nails, though his eyes often held an unsurpassable amount of joy. Said man had in his tone a russian accent, quite intimidating to those who didn't know of his kindhearted behavior.

On the present day – the fifth of January, Jack found himself on his way to Burgess High, returning for his second term after the winter break.

The small town of Burgess, Pennsylvania, was an average college town. It was nothing too special in Jack's mind; the area was surrounded by quiet woodlands, with small ponds, rivers, and lakes marking the lands as well. They had moderately warm summers walled by chilly winter months, the seasons never failing to make their rounds every year. This town held the strongest sense of home he'd ever felt. Adapting to the area when he was seven years old was hard, yet as fate had it, he and his younger sister had grown to love every inch that surrounded them.

And so, as Jack worried his lip, he was bothered by his recently found desire to leave Burgess. There was a certain fragility to the place now. The ground beneath his feet seemed unstable, like thin ice, threatening to crack under the slightest bit of pressure.

Shivers had run down Jack's spine, concentrating all thoughts back to the prickling cold. The worn passenger seat was freezing beneath his thighs, and as he shifted his position to stuff his hands underneath of them, his previously forlorn gaze had shifted back to a sharp focus, and he huffed out a breath of frustration.

"What is problem, Jack?" From his seat, North voiced a weary laugh. "Trip to school is not to your liking?"

He offered North a grin, though he assumed by the doubtful look on his adoptive father's face that the grin had turned sour without his trying. _Oh, what's the use, _Jack thought, his expression dropping altogether. North sighed and spared Jack of his gaze as he turned back to facing the road ahead.

"This day will be hard, Jack." North told him, a weak smile at his lips. "But you must stay strong. It is new year, and things will be different, yes… but it will get better over time." His promise was warming to the heart, though as Jack mulled over the words, he grimaced. Things would be different now,that he knew. He had a strong ache in his chest, swelling his throat to a constant close, all due to the fact that things would not get better. Not when someone so dear and important in his life was gone; and certainly not when it was _his fault_.

After another few minutes of dreadful waiting, the car rolled to a final stop, and out the window stood the two story structure of Burgess High. Red bricks with a white trimming, large frosted windows, and a set of double doors proudly displaying the front of the unspeakably dull school. The outer yard was blanketed by a newly fallen layer of snow, not yet dirtied and stomped on at the ungodly hour of seven thirty a.m. Burgess High's morning period didn't begin until eight thirty. With an excruciating hour set before him, Jack had almost forgotten the reason of his early drive. He was already eager for the day to end before it had even begun.

North drew his attention back with a rough cough.

He handed Jack some neatly folded papers, which held his student information and a report of his current state. It was professionally written, signed by his old school counselor and all.

"This is for office. I called last week, but it never hurts to give reminder, yes?" North tried for a smile. "Give it in right away, Jack, and they should inform your teachers for you."

Jack mouthed a thanks, though not a sound escaped him. He lifted his backpack from the floor, opened the car door, and shivered at the rush of wind that had flown into the car. After taking a small breath, he stepped out onto the snowy road.

Behind him, North wished him a good day, and the man smiled tiredly. Jack nodded and smiled back, shut the passenger door, and began a (falsely) confident strut towards the school's main entrance. Though his mind felt nothing but dread, he felt the need to keep up his usual appearance. Courageous, outgoing, and happy… It was, in all honesty, the opposite of how he felt right then.

He shook the thought, and pulled a hand from his hoodie's pocket to open the door before him. There was a groan from the hinges, a rush of warm air, and then the sound of someone calling his name.

"Hey, Jack!"

It was a classmate of his—Liam, Lyman, something like that—with his arm raised in greeting.

He wanted to say something back; no, he _should_ have, but all that followed was silence. There was a wave in reply, that was all Jack could offer, then he hurriedly kept course for the office. There was a newfound ache in his chest whenever he found his voice absent, as it often was for the past few weeks.

* * *

[_December 20__th__ – three weeks earlier._]

That morning, Jack had been happy. He woke to the sight of sunlight pouring into his bedroom. It cast shadows and shines along his walls, reflecting around and into his eyes. Curiously, he wondered who opened the window's blinds. Of course, his curiosity was short lived; beside him, his little sister began to talk.

"Jack, _please_! I know you're awake!" As he hid beneath his covers and pillows, Emma shoved her little hands against his back. She laughed, repeating his name in annoyance. "_Jack_. I'll have you know, Dad said he'd make us pancakes. But _only_ if you get outta bed!"

The boy groaned, clearly against the aspect of getting up. Nonetheless, his head of white hair poked out from under his blanket to stare at his sister. Though he was tired, he wore a small smile. "Why so early?" he asked with a coarse voice. Emma crossed her arms, sporting a stubborn pout on her face.

"It's not early, it's already _noon_, you idiot."

Jack laughed, hiding back into his covers. He stuck his hand out and made little shooing motions.

"Still too tired," he called.

Emma huffed out with impatience. She then jumped onto her brother's bed and tried her best to rile him awake, a grin planted firmly on her face. When he groaned in annoyance and threw his blankets off to the side, she stuck out her tongue smugly. She was all too aware of the tussle that was about to begin, so she wasn't at all surprised when Jack lunged for her.

He tickled at her sides, laughing like a madman while Emma kicked her feet around and tried to wiggle free, shrieks of laughter coming from her as well. The more they tossed and turned, the more his blankets tangled around their feet, and they soon found themselves tumbling onto the floor.

"I call truce!" said Jack, an arm shielding his face dramatically as he lay on his room's hardwood floor. Next to him, Emma sat up and asked, "So you'll come down for pancakes?"

As soon as he uttered a _yes_, she cheered.

"Beat you downstairs, Jack!" And then she left.

* * *

The school's office was pristine. Stark white tiles were aligned on the floor, probably polished the night before, along with freshly painted walls in a tan tone. It was like an attempt to soothe the suffocating atmosphere that always came with Burgess High's office.

Jack's past trips to the office had always been tense. They were often met with punishments (detentions, suspensions, or in special cases, a stern talking to), but those things only worsened the atmosphere. The room itself was stuffy. It had stiff waiting chairs and rickety coffee tables, each showcasing pamphlets on _troubled teens _and how to help them, or _tips and tricks_ on better studying routines. There were blinding fluorescent lights all over the room, bathing it in an intoxicating white, along with the constant ticking of a clock far too loud to be considered white noise.

It was almost physically painful to be confined in this room, this orderly hellhole. So with great pain, Jack set himself in line behind another student, his information papers in hand.

Distractedly, he took to observing the brown-haired student ahead of him. He was poised with broad shoulders but a lithe figure, and had his head tilted to the side. With his back turned from Jack, he was staring intently at the secretary. She seemed to be giving him directions—a _left turn there_ and a _trip up the stairs after_—though Jack had no idea where she was trying to lead him to.

And when she was finished, he spoke quietly, seemingly asking for her to clarify again.

Jack felt a pang of sympathy for the guy.

Though Burgess was a small town, its high school was anything but. It was large with impractical designs, all due to the number of renovations and additions that were added throughout the years. He remembered how it took him a full school year to know his own way around. Many class hours were spent roaming the halls, finding all of the classrooms and corners that most people didn't know about. Jack took pride in that, at the time. Somehow, he once found himself on the school rooftop, and it took him quite a while to find his way back down. He visited the rooftops for _days_ after, as though it were a secret hideout of his.

His thoughts were interrupted as someone called his name. Jack's stare darted to the secretary, locking his curious gaze with her own expectant one.

"Overland?" She repeated, smiling at him kindly. _Wait, what?_ _Kindly?_ The secretary, a middle-aged woman with harshly tied hair and brimless glasses, who had worked behind that desk for as long as Jack could recall, had never called his name without pursed lips and a scowl. He was, to put it simply, surprised.

"Are you here for detention already?" Okay, so change that to _mildly surprised_.

"Only joking dear," She laughed with dry humor and beckoned him forward. He complied, his brows furrowed in confusion. "I was hoping you could lead Mr. Haddock here to the art room. Is that alright?"

Jack glanced sideways at the "Mr. Haddock" in question, and he was met with large green eyes staring right back at him; green eyes that looked pensive with a hint of curiosity. Quick to break the awkward eye contact, Jack looked instead at the boy's appearance, quite curious himself. He spotted a few small braids in his hair, and wondered if they were symbolic – you know, well earned in some traditional kind of way. Tons of students at Burgess High tended to follow weird familial traditions, and so his guess couldn't have been too out of the norm.

The Haddock boy had a strong jawline, he noticed, and his face was littered with freckles. They dusted over his cheeks and forehead, but gathered messily all over his nose.

Perched on his nose was a pair of glasses, thickly framed in a _hipster_ sort of way. Jack decided that they made him look like one of those "know-all" students, either always knowledgeable on things, or always willing to learn more… a smart-aleck, minus the obnoxiousness.

Behind those glasses, Haddock kept observing him, his head tilted as though deep in thought, before he arched an eye brow in question with a crooked smirk on his lips.

Realizing far too late that he has been caught staring, Jack's eyes went wide for a brief moment, and he forgot to question that the kid has been staring as well. Hastily, he collected himself and huffed out in irritation. Seemingly haughty (but oh so embarrassed), Jack turned his attention back to the secretary before him, and tried his best to ignore the heat that rose to his face.

He barely heard the boy chuckle beside him.

"Great," The secretary took his silence as a _yes_. She swiveled around on her chair, and grabbed from top of the printer a schedule. She passed it to the Haddock boy, and then smiled at both of them. "Is there anything else you need?"

_Oh, right_. Jack brought forward his information letter, and the secretary took it without question. As she made a brief note of it, her composure turned from one extreme to another; from indifference to pure empathy. Jack felt himself tense up, knowing full well what she was about to say.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Jackson."

Grief flowed anew like an open dam. His throat was swelling with that familiar ache, and he imagined it closing off from anything that tried to pass, not even a swallow getting through.

Jack stuffed both of his hands into his blue hoodie's pocket, feeling the need to shrink away from her sad gaze. But as his hands clenched tightly, he plastered on a smile to feign composure, and nodded thanks to her. He stepped back from the counter.

Over his shoulder, he motioned for the Haddock boy to follow him, paying no attention to the questioning look on the boy's face. And thus began the silent walk of _follow the leader_.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for reading! Reviews are always appreciated, and I hope you enjoyed it so far!


	2. Awaiting Evening

**Author's Note: **

Hey guys!

So, it took me ages to write this chapter out. I'm really sorry for the wait! It's another introductory chapter where we'll meet more characters and get a better feel of the setting. This chapter is also about double the length of the first one, and though I'm not really happy with how it turned out, I hope you enjoy the chapter!

Thank you once again to BBaM for helping me out, and disclaimer, I don't own either of these movies.

* * *

**Chapter two: Awaiting Evening**

* * *

Jack took to a slow pace down the hallway.

As his eyes stared straight ahead, his thoughts wouldn't stray from the secretary's words. He knew that her intentions were kind, as she showed only concern and voiced it unobtrusively. But then, he couldn't help the bitterness that stuck to that sentence, that goddamn phrase.

_I'm sorry for your loss_, a few simple words that reduced him to a vulnerable mess.

Despite how those words had care woven through them, he refused to accept it in that form. For some reason, he often interpreted those words as cold and distant, not unlike a harsh north wind on the coldest of days. They lacked a sense of genuine comfort, and from a stranger no less, it only managed to dampen his composure. They were unwelcomed words.

And so he didn't want to be comforted like that—or in truth, he didn't deserve to be.

In the hallway, Jack's face was screwed with frustration. He felt a heavy weight forming in his chest, and prayed for that heaviness to lift away. He took a deep breath through his nose, and let it out in a huff.

"Are you alright?"

Haddock, standing beside him, had worry written in those green eyes of his.

Jack offered a weary grin and shrugged off the question. The other boy was obviously doubtful of his answer, but walked on.

Around them passed the familiar halls of Burgess High. The walls were built with white painted bricks, and highlighted with colorful school spirit posters and boards around every corner, promoting afterschool clubs and activities. From the south side of the school, it was a long walk to the art room, a near ten minutes. Since their walk began, Haddock had been stepping alongside of him with no problem.

It took a little while before a word was spoken between them. Haddock had adjusted his backpack on his shoulders, and after clearing his throat, he spoke.

"So, it's Jackson, right?"

Taken out of his reverie, Jack cast glance at the boy. He shook his head and looked as though he had just swallowed something sour. "Jackson" was strange to his ears, the name never sitting well with him.

As observant as he was, Haddock was quick to correct himself. "Um, just Jack, then?"

This time, he nodded. Before they got drowned by another excruciating silence, to his relief and slight shame, Haddock pointed out the obvious.

"You don't seem to talk much." He said, and then added with a watchful expression, "Not that I mind. I used to know someone who didn't speak. She was sort of like a village elder, an old woman with years of knowledge up her sleeve."

He glanced curiously at Jack. "I always wondered what went on in her head."

Jack's face was unreadable, his head angled to the side. He found that the boy had a nasally voice—not unpleasant in any way, but it definitely emphasized some of his words alongside a very faint accent. He couldn't pinpoint from where the accent originated, though it was definitely overseas.

"Um—not that you're like an old woman, or anything." Haddock grimaced, and his face rose in color. "Sorry."

Jack stared at him blankly, and then the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. It wasn't the most flattering comment, but he didn't necessarily mind being compared to an old grandma. Grandmas could be cool, right? He appreciated what the boy meant behind his words, too.

Jack brought up a fist and bumped it lightly on Haddock's arm, seemingly to say _thanks_.

Haddock gave him a small smile back, glad to have helped.

"It's my first day here." The boy explained without having been asked. It was appreciated, though, because Jack found that he depended solely on Haddock to fill in the silences that threatened to bloom between them. The fact that he had neither desire nor will to talk his heart out as he used to was a rather depressing thought, and when faced with an awkward silence, it only worsened his mood.

"I moved here a couple of years ago, but was homeschooled due to some pretty unusual circumstances. So it's weird, jumping back into the daily grind of high school." After a moment, he seemed to reconsider. "And by _weird_, I mean absolutely awful."

Jack couldn't help but agree. If he had the choice, he would have never left his bed that morning.

"Despite that, today shouldn't be entirely miserable. I do have a few friends here already, some people that I grew up with back in my home town."

Jack wondered if he knew any of Haddock's friends himself, assuming that they were in the same grade as him. If they moved to Burgess the same year as Haddock, a couple years ago, then Jack had probably known them since his freshman year.

"It'll be nice to see them so often again."

Haddock had his head bent down, looking intently at the floor. His brows were furrowed in concentration, as though trying to pry information from the underside of each tile he stepped upon. Jack pried his eyes from the boy, albeit curious.

He turned right at the next corner, and took notice that they were nearly at the art room. The rest of their walk was silent; Haddock lost in thought, and Jack unable to spare his own thoughts to the boy.

* * *

In front of him stood two large doors, their hinges worn and windows covered up, hiding behind them the arguably beautiful expanse of the art room. Jack motioned to the plaque overhead, which read Room 220, and looked back at Haddock with a brow raised.

The boy in question smiled at him.

"Thanks for walking me here," he said, "I uh, hope it wasn't too much out of your way."

_No problem_, Jack wished to reply.

Haddock had tilted his head in thought, and asked, "What's your first class?"

Jack opened his mouth. Then he shut it. He chewed at his bottom lip. He wracked his brain for a way to answer the boy, a little distressed as he didn't even know what class he had himself, before an idea flickered on in the back of his mind. He held up his hands and formed a T, signaling for Haddock to wait a second while he reached into his backpack and shuffled around for something.

A second later, he flourished out a worn folded paper, his school schedule, and opened it up. He didn't bother reading it; he just passed it over to Haddock.

"What a coincidence," he said, soon handing the paper back to Jack. "We've got art class together."

* * *

The art room was a real mess, but it brought with it a relaxing environment.

Scattered in uneven rows, the various tables and desks had no surface left untouched. It either held artwork—drawn, painted or sculpted—or it portrayed a piteous sight of forgotten pencils and crumpled papers. Sometimes, Jack couldn't tell the difference.

As he and Haddock entered, the boy at his side took in the sight with wide eyes. There were a few students in the back corners of the classroom. After a glance at Haddock and him, they went back to their works, heads held low and in deep concentration. Certain students had their faces nestled into the crook of their sleeves, fast asleep and comfortable.

Reminded of his own tiredness, Jack yawned. He set his bag down and stretched, noiselessly but expressively, before sitting at the nearest table.

Haddock followed suite, sitting beside him.

"Where's the teacher?" He asked quietly, glancing around the room. Jack did so too, and saw that the charismatic Ms. Zabek was nowhere to be seen. He looked back to Haddock and shrugged.

The boy frowned before setting the matter aside, and then began to unpack his bag onto the table before them. He took out a moleskin notebook, well used, followed by a number of pencils. They ranged from 6B to 4H. There were other things too, like a smudge stick, some inking pens, and a few shades of markers as well. A fairly professional setup, Jack thought, suddenly eager to see the boy's art. Though he was enrolled in art class himself, Jack was never much of a paper-and-pen guy; he opted more on photography, or things of the like.

Haddock opened his notebook to a blank page, and Jack jutted out his lip in a pout; he'd have to wait until later, he realized, to see a finished work.

As Haddock rummaged through his pile of supplies, Jack slouched tiredly onto the table and laid his head down. He estimated there was, what, twenty minutes before the first bell? He'd have to find something to occupy the time, and then pass yet another hour in this very classroom.

He pulled out his phone, intent on playing some games.

In the middle of a round of some trivia app, though, a notification grabbed his attention. It was a text from Astrid, the girl having just arrived at school by bus. They were an unusual match, she and him; not as a couple (_never_, Jack swore), but as close friends. She was all try-hard and impress-all, while he held the record of most mischief achieved in a single school year. They got along like one would imagine (lots of mocking and shoving), though neither of them took it to heart. As much as they'd want to, there was no denying the friendship that they had, and there was no getting out of it, either.

The text from Astrid read: _Hey, Frosty_.

As Jack typed up his reply, she added: _Did you make it to school? _She worried too much, according to Jack. But honestly, he was thankful of it. The past week had been hectic for her; she had spent a good portion of her time at his house, offering a helping hand whenever he needed it.

_Already in art class…somehow._

When his phone chimed right away, he grinned.

_Huh,_ _pretty impressive._

_I know, right? :P_

After a moment of no reply, Jack asked: _See you at lunch later? _

'_Course_, she answered._ See you later. _

He knew that they would meet at their usual spot—the bottom of a stairwell, not too far from the art room itself. The stairwell was fairly empty of other students during lunchtime, save for their small group of friends, as it was located in a fairly unused corridor.

Quite suddenly, Haddock set down his pencil and turned to look at Jack.

"Can you write?" he asked.

Jack stared back at him.

In the moment that passed, a look of amusement passed over his face. He repeated the boy's question in his head: Could he write? Okay. He'd admit that his cursive was a little sketchy, but he could most definitely, undoubtedly, write. He raised a brow at Haddock, and nodded.

The boy paid no mind though, as he seemed to have just caught on to his own words. Jack almost laughed when he began to backtrack.

"No, I mean–look, you can write down your thoughts." Haddock mimed writing with his hands, "We can have a conversation…and, um, talk?" He paused and cleared his throat.

Jack only raised his brow further.

Nonetheless, he fetched from his bag a few loose-leaf papers, and then reached across Haddock's art book to grab an HB pencil from his pencil case (he ignored the mumble of _oh sure, go ahead_, seeped in sarcasm). He tapped the pencil against the page for a few seconds, unsure as to what to say, until he scribbled down the first thing that came to mind and slid the paper over to Haddock.

On it read: _sup?_

Haddock's own brow rose. "How philosophical," he said dryly.

Jack shrugged; he never claimed to be a philosopher. Pulling the paper back to him, he began to write his next message.

_What's your name, Haddock boy?_

At this, it was the boy's turn to raise a brow. "It's Henrik," he said. "_Not_ Haddock boy."

It was a pretty uncommon name, as far as Jack could tell. It felt really formal, sort of unfitting but strangely appropriate for the kid who sat beside him.

"Not many people call me by that, though." Henrik added offhandedly.

Jack's curiosity peaked, and he wrote down: _what _do_ they call you then?_

"Well," Henrik cleared his throat. "Um, it doesn't really _matter_, you know?" He laughed nervously. The look he wore seemed suspiciously like regret, and somewhere inside of him, Jack felt a flame of his old-mischievous-self ignite.

There was a twitch of a grin on his face as he wrote: _Is that so?_

"_Yes_." Henrik insisted. "That _is_ so."

Jack pressed on.

_Is it Hen?_

"No." Henrik expression bore into his, looking purely unimpressed.

_How about Henny? Rick? Ricky?_

"Oh gods—_no_." Henrik looked close to laughing, or maybe he was about to cry. Either would have made sense, honestly.

_Is it a noun?_

Henrik laughed. "Jack, I am _not_ playing twenty questions over this."

_You're the one who brought it up, Haddock!_

"And you're the one who's persisting, _Overland_." Henrik replied.

Jack sputtered a laugh—or as close to a laugh as he could get. It was more like a noiseless wheeze with his face stretched into a smile.

_Real original_, he wrote.

"Oh, I'm sorry, should I call you something else?" Henrik was grinning. He motioned to Jack's hair—snow white in color and messed up in a bed-head kind of way. "How about Snowcone? Or maybe you'd prefer Snowflake?" He contemplated with a hum, and brought a hand up to his chin. "There's even _Jack Frost_."

Jack's eyes brightened.

_I like that one._

Henrik rolled his eyes, but laughed anyway. "I'll keep that in mind, then, Snowcone."

Before Jack could retort, though, there was a yell of his name from the doorway. The white-haired boy felt a sudden weight on his back, and was then smothered by a pair of arms pulling him into some weird, air-constricting backwards hug. If his voice had not failed him, his words would've come out as a string of curses and intelligible sounds.

Once he was let go—and thank god for that—he turned around and met the eyes of the one and only Ms. Zabeck.

The woman was dressed in her usual bright outfits, with clashing colors, patterns and textures, and she flashed him a bright smile to match.

"How have you been, Jack?" She asked him in a caring tone.

Her eyes were concerned and her hands were fidgeting nervously. She seemed to be holding herself back from looking him over hands-on, like an overly concerned mother would do to her very own child. Of course, she wasn't his mom—she was just his art teacher.

But she was also a good family friend.

Jack knew her as Anna, an outgoing girl in her late twenties with a kindness that rivaled his own adoptive father's. In fact, she was an old part-time employee of his. It was only in the past few years that she decided to pursue a career in the education of the arts, while everyone around her was certain that she would follow in her parent's footsteps and become an orthodontist.

Jack smiled at her in hopes to convey the message that _he was good, thanks_.

She was aware of his situation, anyways. Family friend, remember?

"And how's North, is he improving at all?"

He titled his head and waved his hand in a _so-so_ gesture.

She sighed and said, "Ah, well, he'll come along soon enough," before turning to look at Henrik, who had stayed silent since her arrival. Her eyes brightened anew as she pushed the conversation out of her mind, and leaned forward into Henrik's personal space.

"And you're Henrik Haddock, aren't you?" She smiled at him and set a hand on his shoulder. "The office told me that you wanted a word with me, but I'm so sorry, I have so many preparations to get done before the morning period—is it alright if you come see me after class?"

Henrik smiled modestly. "It's, um, no problem."

"Thank you so much, Henrik!" Anna said with glee. She ruffled his hair, somehow knocking his glasses askew and bringing a bewildered look to the boy's face.

"You're a life saver, you know that?" She told him, before heading right back out of the classroom doors from whence she came.

After he put his frames back in order, Henrik mulled over his words.

"She's definitely, um… a charismatic teacher."

Jack grinned. Anna was undoubtedly a little of an overbearing teacher at first, but she had an unimaginable passion for the arts that nobody could deny. So she fit the job completely.

By the time the morning announcements had begun, every table had an occupant as student after student filed into the classroom, and took possession of the last remaining seats. Occasionally, some far off acquaintance would wave at Jack when they entered the room, and for politeness sake, he waved back. He said no word, however, no matter how many _hello_'s and _how are you_'s that he received.

In a bitter way, he couldn't care less to reply to them.

The rest of the class went by without a hitch: Anna spoke energetically and expressively, passing around syllabuses and explaining the class curriculum. From past years' experience, Jack already knew that it was an easily passable class, as long as you didn't fall behind on the project due dates. Though unfortunately, he was a bit of a procrastinator himself.

Henrik and him barely spoke—or wrote—to each other for the remainder of the hour. The other boy seemed pretty intent on taking notes of whatever Anna said, though occasionally, when the teacher went off on a completely unrelated tangent, he would set down his pencil and look around the classroom.

Jack took these moments to write to him. The notes went along the lines of, "_can I borrow an eraser?_" to "_is that painting _supposed_ to look like a dick?_" and when it came to replies, Henrik either shrugged and passed him whatever he needed, or gave him the most deadpan (and possibly disturbed) look of _what in the hell are you going on about_.

There was something about those expressions that Henrick put on that brought him to laugh that muted laugh of his.

Soon, the bell rang. It signaled the end of the first period, and students began to pack their bags, some already filing out of into the halls in order to beat the gathering mob.

On a whim, Jack borrowed another pencil and paper from Henrik, and scribbled down a final note to the boy before he would leave the classroom. After he hurriedly passed the note—which held his cell number, and underneath it, a message saying: _text me in case you get lost or something_—Henrick read it quickly, and a small crooked smile fell onto his lips.

Jack shot a grin in return. He waved a silent goodbye and then followed the wave of students out into the halls, on his way to his second period class.

Meanwhile, Henrik stayed behind to get a word with Ms. Zabeck.

As he waited for her attention, he couldn't stop toying with the note in his hand; and though he tried to hide it, he couldn't stop smiling, either.

* * *

Come lunchtime, Jack was just about ready to collapse. Whatever the cause—be it exhaustion, defeat or frustration—he couldn't wait to just sit down with Astrid and recharge like a dying battery. She wouldn't drill him into talking, knowing full well that he wouldn't want to.

His two classes after art (and after parting with Henrik, whom he seemed to have had spent his daily quota of speaking with) were spent avoiding any social interactions. From students and teachers alike, it proved to be challenging when every one of them within talking distance tried to strike up conversations with him. By his second period math class, he was truly exhausted, but was stolen of his nap by the kid who sat beside him. The guy just wouldn't give him a rest. And then physics class, right after… _Oh, man._ Jack was just about ready to shake the living hell out of his classmates.

Never mind the reason why; he would rather forget the constant stares on his back. So what if he was acting differently than before the winter break? That didn't justify their judgmental and prying eyes.

After stuffing his lunch into his backpack, Jack swung his bag onto his shoulder and went to shut his locker door. But as he was doing so, a hand placed itself onto his shoulder, and he tensed. He was already mentally preparing himself for another social confrontation from some classmate, when Astrid's voice rang out at his side.

"What's up, Frosty?" She asked with nonchalance.

He was visibly relieved.

The girl wore her hair in a braid, as per usual, with her head held high in an ever-present confidence. However, when Jack's gaze met hers, he spotted through her confidence a strange flicker of worry. He said it before, and he would say it again: she worried too much.

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards, and he inclined his head in greeting.

Astrid smiled before motioning over her shoulder for them to start heading down the hallway. As they strode towards their lunch spot, Jack noticed how she took wide steps, almost rushed, with an eagerness so rarely found in his friend. Dare he say, she seemed _excited_. And he didn't have to wait long until she told him what was on her mind.

"So," she began, "there's someone that you have to meet."

He looked at her questioningly.

"He's an old friend of mine from way back." She shot him a smirk. "I think you two would get along pretty well, considering you're the two biggest dorks that I know."

Jack shoved her arm, and she laughed.

"I'm just kidding," she said, but Jack sort of doubted that.

As they neared the stairwell, Jack began to hear the far off voice of Steven Ingerman; otherwise nicknamed Fishlegs back in his home town with Astrid.

Fishlegs was a large and clumsy boy, and as much a good friend to Jack as Astrid was to him. When they first met some years ago, Jack was told that the "intimidating" nickname was a Viking tradition, to scare off bad omens and such. Jack questioned that, asking why Astrid didn't have a similar name herself then; he said that she was one of the lucky ones.

"Fishlegs is the one that keeps in touch with him, though." Astrid continued on the subject of her friend. "They play that RPG together pretty often, and I think they hang out every few weekends too."

They turned to walk down the stairwell. Jack dragged his feet with fatigue, while his friend hurried on with slight impatience. There was a second voice accompanying Fishlegs', and Jack felt a familiarity to it. However, he couldn't pin it to a face. Astrid seemed to hear it too, and she jumped the last few steps of the stairs, while Jack followed at his own pace.

He halted when he reached her side.

Before anybody even spoke, Jack was already mentally chiding himself for not recognizing the second voice sooner.

Fishlegs sat, crossed legged and mid-way through a conversation with Henrik. Brown hair accompanied by green eyes; it was definitely the same boy from art class. He looked at ease, talking to Fishlegs like he was old friend of his. Granted, he _was_.

Henrik noticed them first. He grinned crookedly at Astrid and got up to give her a hug.

"It's good to see you, Astrid." he said. "And you too—"

As soon as Henrik's eyes fell on Jack, the boy paused. He observed him with obvious confusion, seemingly trying to think up the reason for him being there. Jack, on the other hand, raised a hand to wave. It was mostly in greeting, but also in hopes to get Henrik to stop staring at him.

"…Jack?" Henrik was obviously confused.

Astrid cleared her throat and caught their attention, the two boys prying their eyes from one another to their mutual friend.

She motioned to Henrik. "Jack, this is Hiccup. Hiccup, Jack."

When the name registered in his head, Jack raised a brow. _Hiccup?_

If he was right to guess, it was most likely a nickname like Fishlegs'—of Viking tradition, or whatever. He then thought back to art class when Henrik had been reluctant to tell him, and things made a bit more sense. He felt some newfound sympathy for the boy; "Hiccup" was a pretty unfortunate thing to be called.

Henrik looked sharply at Astrid with betrayal marked on his face. And with a grudge in his tone, he said, "I thought we agreed to not just—" he waved his arms around "—throw that name out at every possible occasion?"

"Oh, toughen up, Hiccup!" Astrid sat down with him. "It's fine! Jack's alright with it. Right, Jack?"

She looked at him threateningly, and Jack nodded his head. He had the impression that he couldn't _not_ be alright with it. Fishlegs laughed.

Astrid turned back to Henrik. "See? It's _fine_."

His annoyance dropping, Henrik adjusted his glasses on top of his nose. "And we already met in art class, by the way" he droned.

"Wait, what—seriously?" Astrid sighed. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

As they continued to bicker, Jack yawned and covered it up with his hand. He sat down across from the other three and formed a circle, or square, of four people. Unwrapping his lunch, he also noticed that he was starting up a headache (probably due to his lack of sleep, he thought), and tried to rub the exhaustion out of his eyes.

There was a hand on his shoulder, like before.

He blinked up at Astrid, who wore a frown on her face. She asked him quietly, "Have you been sleeping at all, Jack?"

He noticed Henrik throwing a glance at Fishlegs, who shook his head in reply.

Jack waved a hand around, as if to say that he was sleeping just fine. That was far from the truth, as he hadn't had a good night of sleep for the past two weeks, but he would rather not make anybody worry more on his behalf. Astrid was skeptical of his answer, but for his sake—since he looked pretty uncomfortable under her scrutiny—she changed the subject.

"Did you know," She said, motioning again to Henrik, "that he and I grew up in Denmark? We all moved here the same year; Hiccup, Fishlegs, me and the others." He didn't need to be told who she was referring to. "And _finally_ this idiot here decides to come to our school. It took him long enough."

Henrik hummed in agreement. With a smirk, he asked, "And just how did I live without high school all these years?"

Astrid shoved him. "It's better than being homeschooled, you shut-in."

Henrik pouted at her.

"You wound me, Astrid. I finally come to join you guys, and this is the welcome I get?"

Fishlegs laughed and said, "Well, at least you're here now."

Henrik nodded, and said, not without a hint of sarcasm, "and thank the gods for that."

* * *

The end of the school day had arrived, and Jack was sitting alone in a crowded school bus. He was looking out the murky window, leaning heavily on the metal frame but keeping his head from doing the same, lest he wanted to get a concussion from the constant bumps on the road.

Throughout the day, word had gotten around that the infamous Jack Overland, _The Mischief King_ himself, wasn't acting quite right. There were a select few students that knew the reason of his sudden silence, but the remaining few didn't really bother to learn.

They instead brewed up their own theories on Jack's sudden change in personality.

The stories ranged from him being a victim of drug abuse (he knew that he was looking a little thin lately, but _really_?) to the inevitable rumor of him faking it for attention (as though he needed that, _thank you very much_). It was all so frustrating. As a result, the student population of Burgess High seemed to have collectively decided to give him some "personal space". In other words, everyone avoided him like he was the sole carrier of the bubonic plague.

And so there Jack sat in the bus, alone and unnoticed by his peers and feeling sort of dejected.

However, after a few minutes of sulking, he somehow had the impression that somebody was staring at the back of his head. As casually as he could, Jack cast a glance over his shoulder and scanned the bus for the culprit. He was met with disappointment, finding no eyes looking his way.

But he saw instead Henrik, sitting three rows back from him and distractedly staring out the window.

The boy was pushed against the hard metal frame of the school bus, his other side being crushed by the backpack of a student who paid him no attention, conversing excitedly with a student across from them. Henrik looked so hilariously uncomfortable that Jack had to force down a smile.

_Almost adorable_, he thought from nowhere.

With sudden attention, Henrik's eyes became alert and he turned to stare ahead, until his green eyes locked with Jack's blue ones, and a small smile flitted onto his face. He raised a small hand in greeting, and Jack hurriedly waved back at him.

At that moment, he decided that he'd try his best to sit with the kid the next day; it would hopefully make the bus rides a little bit more enjoyable for the both of them. And shortly after that thought, when his bus stop came and Jack hopped off down the short set of stairs, he realized that he was also pretty thankful of Henrik for not treating him like a plague bearer.

With a deep breath, Jack pulled up the hood of his sweater to shield himself from the cold, and began the walk to his house a couple of blocks away.

His neighborhood was a more modern district. The houses all held the same qualities—two stories high, the garage door set in the front, and stucco walls ranging from beige to tan—much to Jack's annoyance. The neighbors were all kind to him; he was appreciative of that. But there was a distinctive lack of fully grown trees and well-worn sidewalks in the area, which resulted in a lack of history and life, and that bothered him to no end.

Despite it all, the nearer he got to his home, the more his body language relaxed. His shoulders slackened, his jaw unclenched, and his hands did the same. His home was truly a welcoming sight, with the driveway freshly shoveled and the windows warm with light.

When he entered through the unlocked door, he was greeted by North's jolly voice.

"Welcome home, Jack!"

The man appeared from the kitchen doorway. He was large and threatening in appearance, though a little less so than usual as he wore a flowery apron, having been midway through his daily dinner preparations.

Jack waved a lazy hand in greeting, and North smiled back at him. He motioned for Jack to follow him into the kitchen, and he complied, taking off his shoes and setting his backpack down on the entryway's floor.

"Come help with dinner," said North. "And cut some vegetables for me."

There was a comfortable silence that fell between them, broken only by the chopping of knives or the stirring of soup, until North glanced curiously at him.

"Day went well, no?" he asked.

And with a low voice, Jack answered.

"Yeah, it went well."

Now, there was no shout of astonishment that followed, nor any cry of revelation. It wasn't as though Jack couldn't speak altogether; this "traumatic mutism" seemed to have its own rare moments of selectiveness.

There was a single exception to his silence, he learned: he would reply solely to North with small words like _thanks_, _yes_, and _no_, but only in the confines of their home. It was like a "safe zone" where his anxieties dimmed considerably, and somehow, his throat didn't constrict itself as severely as it would outside the house.

The reason for this was simple, Jack thought. He spoke for North's sake. Lately, the poor man always struggled to keep a smile on his face. When his thoughts wandered, he went glossy eyed and miserable, a drastic comparison to Jack's own blank and unresponsive expression. Eventually, Jack noticed that whenever he managed to say a few words to his adoptive father, it gave North hope that in time he would be able to recover fully, and the thought considerably improved North's depressive state.

Therefore, Jack took any remaining strength of his and spoke aloud whenever his mind permitted it. Unlike North, he knew that his "condition" wouldn't improve, but since every word of his helped North recover himself, Jack did his best to talk comfortably within his limits.

North paused mid-stir and glanced at Jack, giving him a small (and almost sad) smile.

"That is good, little one." He said.

Later that evening, when Jack went up to his room for the night, he wanted nothing more than to lay face down in bed and not wake up for school the next day. He still had a full week ahead of him before the weekend, and he wasn't too sure if it was going to be manageable.

* * *

His bones ached, and he felt tired, _so_ tired.

It was around two in the morning, and Jack sat wearily on his bedroom floor. He wore his night clothes—a thin pair of sweats and some old t-shirt—though his feet were bare, immune to the cold. There wasn't a sound throughout the house, apart from the distant whispering of the winds outside.

Jack's stare was thoughtful.

He was looking ahead at his window, where the moon hung solemnly outside. It illuminated the whole neighborhood, though tonight, it felt to Jack like it was intruding on his dark mood.

North used to tell him that there was a man who lived on the moon. He was nicknamed Manny, like an old friend of his. As far as Jack knew, Manny had no physical form, but only a vague description of his purpose: he overlooked all of the children on Earth, and protected those who believed in him.

_Believing was a strong word_, Jack thought.

When he was younger, he couldn't bring himself to believe in someone else's tales. However, his sister could. Her mind always rested in bedtime stories and fairytales, which brought to her eyes a dancing look of wonder. She was like a personification of the emotion, and of the act of believing.

Jack's throat felt constricted, and he forcedly swallowed the feeling down.

He had a conflicting relationship with the moon. He didn't believe in North's tale, but it calmed him down nonetheless, like a parent's presence would comfort a child. But in return, the moon brought back old memories of his sister. It should have been a consolation, since after all, his sister was the most important thing in the world to him, yet it proved to be torturous instead. With each reminder that the moon brought back to him, he got closer and closer to reliving that traumatizing night.

He wanted to forget it, but his mind wouldn't let him. Whenever he tried, he felt guilty; and whenever he remembered, he felt that same guilt double over.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for reading c: reviews are always appreciated, and they keep me super motivated! The next chapter should be a tad more interesting, so I hope you'll forgive the lack of excitement in this one.


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